


Love Me Harder

by roboticonography



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cougar Peggy, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Peggy Lives, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is reunited with a much-older Peggy. Their attraction is still as strong as ever, but will the age difference prove insurmountable?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you know about me

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I started writing after seeing actual silver fox Peggy Carter's cameo in Ant-Man. For the sake of convenience, it takes place shortly after the end of The Avengers, and refers to a deleted scene from that film.
> 
> Title and chapter titles courtesy of [this amazing Postmodern Jukebox cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGctbQ0OxOY), which I've had playing in the background while writing.
> 
> The tag says "mild D/s themes" but we're talking _extremely_ mild here - an exploration of uneven power dynamics in a relationship. No characters were hurt in the making of this fic.

It wasn’t until after the attack on Manhattan that Steve finally worked up the courage to call the number that Nick Fury had given him for Peggy Carter.

 

The voice on the other end of the line was heartbreakingly familiar, and surprisingly alert. The only real difference was that her accent had softened a little, after so many years living in the States. She said _apartment_ instead of _flat_ , _trash_ instead of _rubbish_. (She did, however, still use the word _arse_.)

 

They exchanged pleasantries for a while before the prospect of a visit was raised. Steve was ready to suggest that he could take the train to D.C., but Peggy surprised him yet again by offering to meet him in New York. “I’m often in the city on business,” she told him. “It’s practically a second home.”

 

“I thought you were retired?” inquired Steve, uncertainly. He wondered if she could be getting a little confused, if she maybe… wasn’t entirely present anymore. He’d seen it already a couple of times, with other old friends.

 

“I am, but I still do a bit of consulting. Just enough to keep my hand in. I’m not the type to sit around all day tending my roses. That’s not a euphemism, in case you were wondering—I do actually have roses, though I’m rather careless with them. I think it’s improved the look of them, on the whole.”

 

She sure _sounded_ present. Steve wasn’t sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all.

 

“I’ll be in town next Thursday,” Peggy continued. “Shall we have dinner?”

 

“Sure. That’d be swell.” Steve hadn’t said ‘swell’ in over a year—well, technically, in over 70 years—and he wasn’t exactly sure why he was busting it out now. “Sorry. That was pretty corny.”

 

Peggy just chuckled appreciatively, and gave the address of an upscale hotel in Manhattan. “Do you have a car?” she inquired. “Or shall I come and collect you?”

 

“I can drive.” Steve figured he’d rent a car. Otherwise, she might insist on dropping him home after dinner; he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of her having to drive to Brooklyn and then back to the hotel so late, especially with all the construction detours.

 

“Lovely. You can pick me up at seven-thirty, and we’ll find somewhere close by that hasn’t been smashed to bits by you and your new friends.”

 

“Swell,” he repeated—on purpose this time, droll. “See you then.”

 

*

 

Peggy’s suggestion of ‘finding somewhere’ for dinner hadn’t given him many cues for how to dress. In the end, he’d made a selection from the more traditional side of his closet: khaki trousers, button-down shirt in a soft blue check pattern, leather jacket, penny loafers. He was both shaved and after-shaved, his hair neatly combed and pomaded despite the shorter style.

 

He drove too fast, arrived at the hotel too early, parked in visitor parking, and panicked quietly in the car for a quarter of an hour or so. Then he took a walk around the block, pulled himself the hell together, and went inside.

 

Peggy had said she’d meet him in the hotel lounge. He wished he’d had the foresight to ask for a recent photo, or for her to describe what she’d be wearing. As much as he would have liked to believe in the romantic notion that he’d know her anywhere, he’d learned that it was absolutely possible for time to alter a familiar face beyond recognition.

 

He scanned the occupants of the lounge, ruling them each out in turn: a trio of young people in business-wear, all of whom had their laptops on the table; a silver-haired fellow in a power suit, musing quietly over a martini; and a striking woman in a sleeveless black dress and pearls, sitting alone at the bar.

 

It wasn’t until he was seated at the bar himself, a few stools away from the woman in the black dress, that Steve caught a glimpse of her profile—and froze.

 

Was this some kind of trick? A test? Or just a cruel joke?

 

The woman turned towards him. “Hello, Steve,” she said warmly, patting the seat beside her. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”

 

Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

 

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Her voice was exactly the same as it had been on the phone. “Surely I don’t look _that_ awful?”

 

The truth was, she looked fantastic. Her face was as radiant as always, her figure just as incredible. Her hairstyle was a modern one: loose waves, swept over to one side and layered asymmetrically. Her dress and jewellery were simple, elegant, stylish.

 

She did look older, but not _much_ older; she might be in her forties, but only barely.

 

Steve wondered for just a moment if he was having some sort of break with reality. “You look… different… than I was expecting,” he said, very cautiously.

 

“No one told you.” The words were quiet, restrained, but the flash of hot anger in her dark eyes gave her away.

 

“Told me what?”

 

Peggy stood up and laid a bill on the bar, covering the cost of her unfinished scotch. “Come and have a drink in my room,” she suggested. “I’ll explain everything.”

 

*

 

It took Peggy a full hour to even _begin_ to explain everything.

 

She wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but she had a theory. In 1946, she’d gotten an accidental dose of Vita-rays—not a high dose, but enough to be detected during a body scan. Not too long after that, she’d broken a vial of Steve’s blood, and cut her hand in the process.

 

Because the overall exposure was so small, the effect hadn’t been as dramatic on her as it had been on Steve: “Just enough to put an edge to my blade,” was her charming way of putting it.

 

She hadn’t taken notice of the effects at all, at first: in typical Peggy Carter style, she’d simply assumed she was in top form, physically and mentally, and got on with it. _It_ , in this case, being founding SHIELD and keeping the world safe. All in a day’s work.

 

It wasn’t until her late thirties that a suspiciously fast-healing broken ankle and a few long looks in the mirror had prompted her to ask herself some hard questions. She and Howard ran some tests, and discovered what was going on, but kept it to themselves, for Peggy’s safety.

 

As time passed, her colleagues began to speculate that Director Carter had found herself a gifted cosmetic surgeon; Peggy played up to it, cultivating the rumours wherever she could. Over time, she also adopted strategies to distract people from the truth: she started wearing glasses, added a few subtle streaks of grey to her hair, and tried to dress in a way that suggested a softening physique.

 

Inevitably, her slow rate of aging and her prolific career had made her face rather too recognizable in the theatre of espionage. She’d declined a seat on the World Security Council—twice—and retired when she felt her deputy director and protégé, Nick Fury, was ready to take the reins. Fury was one of the few people she’d trusted with the secret of her dramatic longevity.

 

She still acted as an advisor from time to time (“for an astronomical fee, naturally”), both to SHIELD and to a select few national intelligence agencies around the world. She’d long since given up trying to look her age; when dealing with a trusted contact, she appeared in person, and the rest of the time, she conducted her business via telephone or the internet.

 

“And so, here I am,” she concluded. “Ninety-four years old, and only slightly the worse for wear. Though to you, I suppose, it must seem like night and day.”

 

“Not really.” He’d had time to observe her while they talked, and had noted the small differences. Her face might have had a couple more lines, her hair a few silver threads, but these details only added character. “You look amazing,” he said, before he could quite stop himself.

 

She gave his arm a little tap and said, “You’re already in my room, charmer.”

 

Steve wasn’t much better at flirting now than he had been the first time around, but at least he could tell when he was being flirted _with_. “Seems like maybe we got things a little backwards, then.”

 

“Oh?”

 

He grinned. “Yeah, you’re supposed to buy me dinner first.”

 

“Well, then,” said Peggy, merrily, “I won’t hold your poor stomach hostage any longer while you to cater to an old woman’s vanity. The restaurant downstairs does a decent prime rib, if you like that.”

 

Steve liked that fine.

 

*

 

It wasn’t the type of dinner date they might have had if they’d gotten to see out the end of the war together. But just the same, the evening was as close to perfect as Steve could have asked for.

 

Peggy knew a lot more than Steve did about food, and about wine—though at ninety-four, he imagined she must know a lot more than he did about almost everything. He supposed that ought to bother him more than it did, but she never made him feel childish or ignorant; she spoke to him just as she had always done, as an equal, and seemed interested in hearing his opinions.

 

He let her take the lead, and order the wine for both of them (and tried not to look too scandalized when she nonchalantly selected a two-hundred-dollar bottle of syrah); he followed her recommendation on the prime rib, which was excellent.

 

She told him about her life back then: her work with the SSR and SHIELD, her failed marriage to a man who expected her to give it all up just as she felt she was finally making progress.

 

He told her about his life now: how Nick Fury and his Avengers Initiative had gotten Steve back into the stars and stripes. Peggy knew parts of it, though she’d been out of the country when the attack on Manhattan had happened.

 

“Fury called me when they found you, of course. I told him it was a foolish idea to keep you in that room, that you’d figure it out the moment you woke up. As a matter of fact, he still owes me a bottle of scotch for that one.”

 

“You never came to see me.” Steve tried, and failed, to keep the hurt out of his voice.

 

“And you had my number for months and never called,” she countered. “But here we are, regardless. No sense in crying over it.” She refilled his glass of wine, and that was that.

 

Everything about her instinctively made sense to him. She was the woman that the girl he once knew had aspired to be: courageous, dignified, accomplished in her field, respected by her peers. She was kind, clever, and passionate—he’d seen these qualities in the rough when she was young, and he saw them in her still, distilled over time and tempered by a vast and varied life experience.

 

In short, she was still Peggy—she was simply _more_ Peggy.

 

And Steve found himself more drawn to her than ever.

 

It felt good to talk to her, good to get her perspective on everything that had happened to him since he’d arrived in this alien world. He’d always valued her insight, and she had a lot of it to give. His stories took less time to tell than they would have if he’d been speaking to someone who didn’t already have an idea of the characters and the setting—but he also didn’t feel the need to hold back his opinions, the way he might if he were speaking to a field agent.

 

Peggy was able to give him an insider’s view of top-level politics at SHIELD, and spoke quite candidly about what she felt were some of the division’s greatest shortcomings. She also suggested a few other avenues his career might take, if he wasn’t interested in picking up the shield again for a while.

 

“Regardless of whatever claptrap they’re putting up in the Smithsonian, the United States government didn’t create you, and SHIELD doesn’t own you now.” There was a slight bitter edge to her voice. “You’ve done your duty. Don’t let them make you feel as though you owe them anything.”

 

“Someone called me about that, the exhibit. They asked me to go and review the plan for it. They said they were ‘committed to a balanced perspective.’”

 

“How nice for them, to have the luxury,” said Peggy dryly. “Will you take them up on it?”

 

“I think so. At least they asked.”

 

“Let me know when you’ll be in town,” she told him, with a casual confidence he envied.

 

They said goodnight in the lobby of the hotel. It would have been an awkward spot to try to kiss her, even if Steve had been certain that she wanted him to. But she did give him a long hug, the length of her body flush against his, her perfume going to his head in a way the wine hadn’t.

 

“I’m glad we got to do this,” he said tightly, resisting the urge to tuck his face into her shoulder. “No matter what happens.”

 

Her long fingers were deliciously cool on the back of his neck. “Don’t talk nonsense, Steve,” she murmured, turning her head to press her lips against his cheek. “I’ll call you.”


	2. and choose to stay

True to her word, whenever Peggy was in New York, she would call Steve up and invite him out. Usually dinner; occasionally an art gallery or a Broadway show, with drinks afterwards.

 

She refused to let him pay for any of it; eventually, he stopped offering, though he couldn’t help feeling a little self-conscious whenever the bill arrived at the table.

 

Steve couldn’t _quite_ figure out if these outings were supposed to be dates.

 

Peggy was more affectionate with him in public than he was used to, from their interactions during the war. She seemed to find it natural to take his arm when they walked, or rest her hand on his if they were seated side by side. Once, in the back of a cab, he’d ventured to put an arm around her shoulders; she’d leaned into his side, laid a hand on his knee, and carried on talking like it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

 

At the end of every evening, he could always count on a hug, and a kiss on each cheek—but never anything more than that, which was what had him puzzled.

 

And that wasn’t the only thing.

 

On their evenings out, Steve had discovered that Peggy seemed to have a lot of friends in New York. Almost everywhere they went, they ran into someone she knew.

 

But after they’d been out a few times, he started to notice a pattern.

 

Peggy’s New York friends never acted particularly thrilled to be introduced to Steve; Peggy was always a little vague about how she knew them; they all seemed to be under the impression that Peggy was a lady of leisure.

 

And all of Peggy’s New York friends were men. Young, handsome, stylish men.

 

Steve wanted to ask about it, if for no other reason than to find out where he stood. The problem was, he had no idea how to voice the question without sounding like he disapproved. And, while he didn’t know a lot about modern dating, he knew that he didn’t really have any right to disapprove, not when he and Peggy hadn’t made any exclusive arrangement.

 

One evening, their dinner was interrupted by a stockbroker named Trevor, who insisted on chatting at their table for twenty minutes, his back to Steve the entire time. Steve found himself increasingly irritated by the guy’s self-absorbed gym talk, and his obnoxious little manicured square of facial hair. By the time Trevor finally left, Steve had worked himself up into a sulk that lasted all the way through dessert.

 

Peggy either didn’t notice the change in his mood, or—more likely—was choosing to ignore it, and that annoyed him even more.

 

“You sure do know a lot of people, for someone who doesn’t live here,” he observed.

 

“Yes,” said Peggy, noncommittally, taking a sip of her coffee. “Would you like to go to the Philharmonic on Saturday? It’s Strauss—a bit dull, but the tickets were a gift and I’d hate for them to go to waste. Shall we give it a try? We can always leave at intermission if you’re not enjoying yourself.”

 

“How did you meet Trevor, anyhow? Is he someone’s grandson?”

 

Peggy put down her cup, flint-eyed. “You’re being appallingly rude.”

 

Steve felt absurdly gratified by her severe tone; it was the first time she’d spoken sharply to him since they’d struck up this… whatever this was.

 

“Well? Do you have something to say for yourself?” she demanded.

 

“Do you date—all these guys we keep running into, are they your—”

 

She let him dangle perilously on the edge of that unfinished question for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I wouldn’t call it dating,” she said at last.

 

“What would you call it?”

 

“Sport fishing,” she suggested, wryly.

 

“You wouldn’t let me get away with an answer like that.”

 

“All right, then. No coy euphemisms. I enjoy sex, and I’ve had quite a lot of it. I like to keep things casual, and I prefer the company of younger men. I like to find them in New York because, as you say, I don’t live here, which means there isn’t any awkwardness if I don’t invite them to my home. Does any of what I’ve just said bother you?”

 

“No. I mean, it shouldn’t.”

 

“Why shouldn’t it?” she asked, quite reasonably. “You’re allowed to have feelings, Steve. But I don’t let anyone speak to me the way you did just now.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry for that.”

 

“I should think so.” Their waiter walked by and discreetly deposited the bill holder on Peggy’s side of the table. She picked it up automatically, to Steve’s further mortification. “You haven’t answered my question.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t bother me that you’ve had a lot of…”

 

“Gentleman friends?” she supplied, not without a glimmer of amusement.

 

“Yeah. But it _would_ bother me, if you were seeing me, and still… spending time with your other gentleman friends.”

 

“I haven’t been,” she said. “But you’re not one of my gentleman friends, Steve.” Steve thought he was doing a pretty good job of keeping his face in check, until she added, “You really do have the most remarkable eyebrows, darling. I’ve never seen a man look so disappointed to be told he _wasn’t_ being callously used for sex.” Before he could figure out how to reply, she carried on: “Now, did we decide about the Philharmonic?”

 

“I’ll go, if you’ll let me pay for my own ticket.”

 

Now it was Peggy’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

 

“And I want to pay for dinner tonight, if it’s all right by you.”

 

There was a long pause, and then Peggy slid the bill holder across the table. “I didn’t pay for the tickets,” she reminded him. “So you’ll just have to take the blow to your masculine pride if you want to come along.”

 

“That’s not what this is about.”

 

He yanked his credit card out of his wallet forcefully, bringing the other cards with it. He crammed them back in, acutely aware of Peggy’s eyes on him. He felt like a kid throwing a temper tantrum—which was probably how it looked to her too.

 

“I know.” Her voice was gentle, and a bit sad. “Steve… don’t you think you’d be happier with someone your own age?”

 

“No,” he said shortly, and smacked the credit card onto the table.

 

She didn’t say anything else about it, but he got the distinct impression that she was pleased by his answer.

 

*

 

Later, they were standing outside, waiting for the cab Peggy had arranged to take her back to the hotel. This, too, was part of the usual routine, though tonight there was an electric sort of tension in the air between them, an emotional static.

 

Steve figured that being direct was his best strategy: “Is this a date?”

 

Her look was indecipherable. “That’s a funny sort of question.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“If you’d like this to be a date, then it is.”

 

“Okay.” He decided to go for broke. “Then… I’m gonna kiss you.”

 

“I wish you would,” she said, with a ferocity that startled him.

 

He pulled her close and their mouths collided, hard and desperate. He kissed her the way he’d always wanted to, pouring all his longing and loneliness into it.

 

Peggy didn’t respond as enthusiastically as he’d hoped. After a few seconds had passed, she drew back, looking decidedly unimpressed.

 

“That won’t do,” she declared, massaging her jaw.

 

“Sorry,” said Steve, reflexively.

 

“Close your eyes,” she ordered. “And relax your mouth a little… good. A little more.”

 

Steve did as he was told, even though he felt silly, standing there gaping with his eyes squeezed shut.

 

She leaned up and fitted her mouth to his, all softness and warmth. He moved to respond, but she held him in place with a firm hand on his shoulder.

 

“We’re not in a fight, darling,” she murmured. “Don’t attack. Just…” She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his chest. When she kissed him again, her tongue slipped between his lips—teasing, playful. He met it with his own, lightly, imitating her. She made an approving sound, and her mouth softened, opening to his.

 

It was a little like eating, or rather tasting, something that was very good, and that he should savour; and also a little like that blissful, dizzying instant before tumbling into sleep, when he felt wide-open to every sound and movement, even the turning of the earth itself.

 

Hours later, or maybe it was only seconds, there was a bright glare in his eyes, and Peggy was breaking the kiss, breathing fast.

 

“It’s my taxi, darling, I’ve got to—”

 

Steve could only stand there, jaw slack, not trusting himself to move or speak.

 

Her dark eyes darted to his lips. She stood on her toes and pulled him back to her, forcefully, her fingers sliding into his hair. He reciprocated eagerly, squeezing her by the shoulders. She pressed against him, making appreciative little noises. She was so soft, and she smelled so good, and he wanted—he wanted—

 

The driver leaned on the horn.

 

Peggy gave a frustrated groan, a sound that seemed to travel directly to the pit of his stomach and lower still. Her eyes were half-lidded, her mouth swollen in a way that made Steve lick his own lips. He suspected he was wearing more of her lipstick than she was.

 

She pulled away again, with conviction, and took a step towards the curb, flashing him a dazzling smile. “Well done, you.” Before ducking into the cab, she added, “Remember that for next time.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he called after her, aching like a teenager and grinning like a fool.


	3. then take this pleasure

The following week, when Steve scheduled his meeting with the Smithsonian, he called Peggy to let her know.

 

They hadn’t spoken since the night of the kiss, and he wasn’t sure what to expect—but she was just the same as always, which was oddly reassuring.

 

“Why don’t you come round for a drink in the evening?” she suggested.

 

“To your place?” He couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice; she’d made a point of mentioning that she never brought her dates home.

 

“Yes. Unless you’d rather not?”

 

“No, no, I want to, yeah.” Steve knew he was failing miserably at playing it cool, and he didn’t care. “I’ll bring wine. You can show me your roses.”

 

“I’d like that.” There was a wicked lilt in her voice. “No white zinfandel, please.”

 

“No, ma’am. Two-Buck Chuck okay?”

 

“Yes, if you’re planning to clean my drains with it. Surely you can spend a fiver?”

 

“Miracles happen every day.”

 

“I’ll take my chances, I suppose. Any time after eight is fine.”

 

“Okay, swell,” he drawled, making her laugh.

 

*

 

Steve didn’t have too much to say about the exhibit plan, as it turned out. They’d done a good job of capturing the whole of who he’d been and what he’d done, in a way that was far less invasive than he’d expected. He corrected a couple of minor points, answered a few questions, and let an ecstatic intern take a selfie with him.

 

He was done by one in the afternoon, leaving him at something of a loss. Stopping at a liquor store to get the wine he’d promised ate up another half-hour, but he didn’t think Peggy would appreciate him calling on her six hours ahead of schedule.

 

Steve took a chance and texted the number Natasha Romanoff had given him. They weren’t friends, not exactly, but after Manhattan they’d parted on amiable terms, and she’d told him to feel free to look her up if he was ever in D.C.

 

To his surprise, she texted back within five minutes; even more surprising, she told him that she and Clint had an extra ticket to a Nationals game, and asked where she could pick him up.

 

It was suspicious: neither of them had ever mentioned any interest in baseball before, and it was a weekday afternoon when both of them should have been working. But Steve wasn’t about to say no to a free ball game.

 

He wound up having a much better time than he’d expected. Baseball hadn’t changed much, as it turned out; the weather was pleasant, and so was the company. Clint and Natasha didn’t exclude Steve from their talk, but neither did they try to force him to participate. He contributed to the conversation when he felt like it, and the rest of the time he drank his beer, and watched the game, and waited.

 

He tried not to think too much about what Peggy’s invitation might mean, what she might be expecting.

 

As the afternoon passed, Steve checked his phone with increasing frequency; he wanted to leave ample time to go back to the hotel, get the wine, and clean up. Maybe change his shirt, he hadn’t decided yet.

 

He thought he was being discreet, until Natasha drawled, “Are we boring you, Rogers?”

 

“Just keeping an eye on the time. I should get going soon, I have a—thing.”

 

“A thing,” echoed Clint. “Picking up that modern lingo pretty quick, huh, Cap? This thing, is it at a place?”

 

“He has a drinks thing,” Natasha elucidated. “With Margaret Carter. At her apartment.” Her face was as guileless as a child’s, but Steve thought he detected a glint of mischief in her green eyes.

 

Steve blushed hotly, wanting to protest, even though no part of what Natasha had just said was untrue. He had no idea how she’d found out—had Peggy told people? Had he been spotted out somewhere with her? Did _everyone_ know?

 

Feeling foolish, he said, “She’s an old friend.”

 

Clint added, “And a stone fox—”

 

“For her age, I know,” Steve finished bitterly. He was sick of hearing it from his SHIELD colleagues whenever Peggy was mentioned, sick of people acting like that was a generous thing to say about a woman. Like Peggy’s beauty and grace needed any qualifiers.

 

“For  _any_  age,” Clint corrected him, looking offended. “Jesus, I thought your eyesight was supposed to be enhanced.”

 

Natasha nudged her partner in the ribs. “Still carrying that torch, huh?”

 

Steve suddenly recalled what Peggy had said, about preferring the company of younger men. 

 

Clint had been with SHIELD since he was about Steve's age. 

 

“Fuck, yeah. I have a thing for women who could beat the shit out of me.” Clint announced this at regular volume, as though it were a normal thing to say in casual conversation. “Not that I _want_ them to, necessarily. I just like that they  _can_. You know?”

 

Steve absolutely did know, though he had more sense than to say it out loud. He kept a neutral expression on his face, very aware of Natasha's keen gaze.

 

Clint continued, “I have this recurring dream about her choking me out with her thighs—”

 

Steve suddenly wanted to sock Clint. His knuckles were already tingling, as if anticipating the impact. He told himself he was being an asshole, that if it were any other woman in the world—

 

“Stop,” said Natasha, unexpectedly merciful. “You’re embarrassing our guest. And yourself.”

 

Steve tried to adopt a casual posture that suggested he wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed. Or jealous. Or distracted by the thought of being smothered by Peggy’s vice-grip thighs. He didn’t have a lot of room to work with, so he wound up with his legs splayed and one elbow draped over the seat back. He felt ridiculous and exposed.

 

“What are you still doing here?” Clint wanted to know. “You don't keep Director Carter waiting.”

 

“Ex-Director,” corrected Steve absently.

 

Clint feigned a dramatic swoon. “Director of my heart.”

 

“Come on, Rogers,” said Natasha, shrugging on her jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

 

*

 

The only other car Steve had been a passenger in recently was Peggy’s, and he couldn’t help but notice the contrast. He’d only recently learned of the expression ‘drive it like you stole it,’ but it encompassed Peggy’s driving style, which hadn’t softened considerably since the war.

 

Natasha, on the other hand, navigated her black Stingray through Washington’s rush hour traffic the same way she did everything else: the least output of effort for the most efficient gain, all while making it look effortless.

 

“I never met Carter,” she said, without preamble. “Fury’s talked about her, though. He makes her sound like a hard act to follow.”

 

Steve hated himself a little for asking, but went ahead anyhow. “And Clint?”

 

“Oh, God. Ask him about the elevator. Actually, let me save you three hours of your life you’ll never get back. She—”

 

“Never mind,” said Steve quickly.

 

They pulled up to a stop light and Natasha gave him a shrewd look. “She said hi to him in an elevator once,” she said.

 

“And?”

 

“That’s it. She said hi and she remembered his name.”

 

“She’s good with names.”

 

“You thought she slept with him.”

 

He leaned his elbow out the window, and picked a point in the middle distance to focus on, in order to actively avoid having this conversation.

 

“I get it. It’s personal.”

 

He nodded gratefully.

 

“A little advice? Stop putting your off-hours appointments in your phone calendar. It’s connected to your SHIELD network account.”

 

Steve looked down at his phone blankly. “Shit,” he said at last.

 

“Why don’t you get your own phone?”

 

“ _Another_ one? I can barely use this one.”

 

“You could donate it to the Smithsonian,” she suggested, with the barest hint of a smile. “It’s practically an antique anyhow.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“You’re changing your shirt, right?”

 

“You know, I’ve actually been on a date before,” he snapped, “believe it or not.”

 

She half-shrugged—as if she didn’t quite believe him, but couldn’t be bothered to argue the point. “What kind of wine did you get?”

 

“Why don’t you just check my credit card receipts?”

 

“Okay,” said Natasha, equably.

 

Steve fumed in silence for the next few miles before conceding that it wasn’t Natasha he was frustrated with. The meeting that morning had left him a little raw, he realized. He was tired of feeling like he was on display—and Peggy was one of the few parts of his life he thought he’d managed to keep private.

 

“Malbec,” he said. “From Argentina.”

 

“Good call.”

 

“I asked a guy at the store,” he admitted.

 

“It’s what they’re there for. Anything else you need? We could swing by the drug store. It’s good to be prepared. Isn’t that what Cap used to say on those VD posters?”

 

“I was never in any of those.” Which was true, as far as he knew, though Steve wasn’t up to speed on every single unlicensed use of his likeness. “You’re thinking of Donald Duck.”

 

He’d already been to the drug store, which was its own kind of ridiculous, but Natasha didn’t need to know about that.

 

Easing the car into the driveway of Steve’s hotel, she asked, “What colour?”

 

“What colour what?”

 

“The other shirt, what colour?”

 

“Blue.”

 

“Good. It’ll bring out your eyes.”

 

“Thanks.” He sounded uncertain, even in his own ears.

 

“Relax, Rogers. I’m not coming onto you. You’re too old for me.”

 

With as much dignity as he could muster, Steve said, “I’m twenty-eight. You know that, right?”

 

“Sure, gramps.” The car rolled to a stop. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t do anything Barton wouldn’t do.”

 

“Really? _That’s_ what you’re gonna go out on?”

 

She flashed him a winning smile. “Yep. Now get out of my car.”

 

*

 

Peggy greeted Steve at her front door, with a kiss that made his eyes close and his toes curl in his shoes. “We’re giving the neighbours a show, darling,” she said after a moment, pulling him inside.

 

As soon as the door was closed and he’d had a chance to put the wine bottle down, it was plain that Peggy intended to stage a private performance; she kissed him with renewed enthusiasm, backing him into the wall. Her hands trailed over his chest and down his stomach, her touch making the muscles there flutter. His own hands were far from idle, roaming over her back at first, then sliding downward. Her clothing was thin, unsubstantial: a loose sort of tunic-shirt, a pair of those cotton leggings that looked like jeans. And, from the feel of it, almost nothing underneath—a realization that made Steve a little dizzy.

 

Still kissing her all the while, he got his hands up under the hem of the tunic and cupped her bottom—which she seemed to like, pushing back into his hands.

 

But when he felt Peggy plucking at his belt buckle, he froze, without really knowing why.

 

He wanted her, very badly; he’d longed for this, fantasized about it, since the first evening they’d had dinner. He’d been preoccupied all day, thinking about it, wondering. But now that the moment was here, he felt paralyzed.

 

As he stilled, she stopped kissing him and pulled away. But before Steve could form either an explanation or an apology, she took his arm and said, “You wanted to see the roses. They’re on the terrace.”

 

She led him through the condo, which had a timeless sort of appeal: spacious, well-lit, tastefully appointed, free of clutter. The many awards and commendations she’d received over the years were proudly displayed in a glass cabinet, while a selection of framed photos adorned the mantel. Steve scrutinized the group photos of Peggy with the Commandos, hoping to spot himself, but they all appeared to be from after his disappearance. It was nice to see they’d stayed close over the years.

 

The terrace was large, a corner block with a fantastic view of the city. The roses were, as she’d mentioned, somewhat wild, but gorgeous in full bloom. Steve stopped just shy of touching one of the blossoms, his hand hovering.

 

“You can,” said Peggy, slipping her arm around his waist. “It’s good for them, they’ve done studies. Gentle touches make them stronger, more resistant to damage.”

 

Steve brushed his fingers over the velvety petals, breathing deeply to inhale their heady scent. Peggy was snug against his side, warm and yielding; he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, turning to dip his face into her hair.

 

“How do I compare?” Her tone was light, teasing.

 

Steve blushed a little, thinking about all the ways in which a woman’s body might be compared to a flower. “Softer,” he murmured. “Warmer.”

 

“I was referring to the fragrance, darling. But thank you.”

 

He muffled a grin against the top of her head. The evening air was just starting to turn cool, and everything felt drowsy and dream-like.

 

“Steve…”

 

“Mm-hmm?”

 

“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but… you do like sex, don’t you?”

 

“Is there something in the way I’ve been kissing you that suggests I don’t?” The question came out more defensively than he would have liked.

 

“You’ve been hesitant.” There was no reproach in her voice, only sympathy. “Is it me in particular?”

 

“No, it’s not you.” He fell back on wisecracking to cover his embarrassment: “I like sex just fine. I hear it’s even better with another person.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“What’s ‘ah’?”

 

“I hadn’t considered that. You have no experience? None at all?”

 

“I thought that was pretty obvious, when you had to teach me how to kiss.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t make any assumptions based on _that_.” She gave a dismissive wave. “You’d be surprised how many men have no idea how to kiss properly. It wouldn’t speak to your inexperience. But I thought that, by now, you must have met a young lady worthy of your affections.”

 

 _Young lady._  Steve saw himself the way she must see him: earnest, naïve, a relic of her bygone youth.

 

“Guess the right one never came along,” he said tightly.

 

If the comment affected her, it didn’t show on her face.

 

“Well, then. I can do the honours, if you’d like.” Her tone was brisk, careless. “You're so beautiful when you blush, my darling.”

 

“Am I blushing?” he asked—mostly because, well, what else was he supposed to say to that? His head was spinning. This wasn’t how he would have chosen to broach the topic, and the offer felt so… impersonal.

 

“Oh, yes.” She seemed to be relishing his distress. “The way I see it, we have two options for how to proceed. The first is to keep things somewhat more traditional.” As if to illustrate, she trailed kisses along the underside of his jaw and down his throat. “We can light candles in the bedroom, put on some soft music, I have a lovely nightgown I can wear.” She kissed the V of skin at the open collar of his shirt. “You can take your time and make slow, passionate love to me, all night long.”

 

He tensed up, embarrassed. “Don’t make fun of me.”

 

She stopped what she was doing, giving him a searing look. “I’m not,” she assured him. “I would enjoy that, very much.”

 

“What’s option number two?”

 

“Well. Option number two is… you let me decide what you need, and I set the pace.” Her voice was low, sultry. “All you have to do is give me your trust, and follow any instructions I give you.”

 

Steve hadn't realized, until hearing it spoken aloud, how very much he wanted what she was offering. Not having to be in control by virtue of being the most powerful; having the burden of decision lifted from his shoulders, even for a short time... it was a huge relief.

 

And it was more than just that. The idea of Peggy taking charge of him in bed electrified him like nothing else. Just the thought of it had him half-hard already.

 

And he did trust her, completely.

 

But what she was suggesting also sounded like it could get beyond Steve’s comfort level pretty quickly. He was—at this point in his experience, at least—a man of fairly plain tastes; he wasn’t interested in anything that would cause either of them pain, physical or emotional.

 

Unsure of how to put that into words without sounding like he was against the whole idea, he opted instead for a hypothetical: “What if I didn’t like what you wanted me to do?”

 

“Then we would stop. Of course.” Peggy actually seemed taken aback by the question. It was the first time he’d seen her anything less than composed. “Good God. What do you think I am?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

She caressed his cheek, and he could smell the potent florals of her perfume—warmer than the roses, but equally inviting. “It’s all right if you aren’t ready, Steve. Or if I’m not the person you want anymore. There’s nothing wrong with waiting, no matter what anyone else might—”

 

Before he quite knew what he was saying, he blurted out, “Can we do both?”

 

“Both?”

 

“Yeah—slow pace, candles, nightgown. But with the—with you in charge.”

 

“Now there’s an idea.” Her tone was cool, but she was looking at him like she wanted to devour him whole. “I suppose we could give that a try. You’re quite certain?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Swell,” she said, and winked.


	4. and take it with the pain

Peggy’s bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, mirrored its owner: modern yet elegant, a perfect blend of function and form.

 

The room was dark, but he could see the bed clearly enough: even larger than the one he had at home, and high-framed, the black metal rails of the headboard forming a simple geometric pattern. She hadn’t been teasing him about the candles; there were small clusters of them, on tables, in all the corners.

 

Handing him a matchbook, she instructed, “Light the candles. Take off everything but your underwear, and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a moment.”

 

Before she closed the doors to the walk-in closet behind her, Steve glimpsed an entire wall of shelves filled with shoes, organized according to type and colour.

 

Steve walked the perimeter of the room, striking matches. Then, a bit self-conscious, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, folding it and placing it on the vanity table. He’d assumed, if things got this far, that they’d undress each other. It was strange to be alone; more like being at the doctor’s office than anything. He wondered whether it was too late to change his mind, go back to just the first option—Peggy had said it would be fine, that she would like doing things that way.

 

In the end, though, his curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to know what she was planning, where she was going to take this. So he stripped down to his undershirt and shorts and planted himself in the centre of the large bed, doing his level best to appear relaxed and casual.

 

Peggy stepped out of the closet. She’d changed her clothes; he wondered if this was the ‘lovely nightgown’ she’d mentioned earlier. Whatever it was, it was short, black, and silky, edged in lace, and molded to her magnificent figure in a way that set his pulse racing. She’d let her hair down as well—it was longer than he’d ever seen it, soft waves cascading over her shoulders. The overall effect was ravishing.

 

She walked over to the bed, looking him over with similar approval. Steve suddenly felt as though they were actors in a play, at the start of a new scene: different props, altered lighting, costume changes.

 

“Darling, what’s this?” She tugged on the hem of his undershirt. Her voice held a note of warning. “I said just underwear.”

 

“Counts as underwear,” he shot back, cocky.

 

She gave him a steely glance, but her words were pure silk: “All right.” He thought she might ask him to take it off, but she didn’t. Instead, she laid a hand on his chest, guiding him to lie down. She climbed onto the bed next to him, and arranged his arms so that they were resting on the pillows, just above his head. The metal rails of the headboard felt cool against his forearms.

 

Her touch was sure and gentle, and everything felt still; it was so quiet that he could hear the clock in the living room ticking, and feel the steady throb of his own heart.

 

“There’s something I want to try. Keep your hands here. Pretend I’ve tied them to the headboard.”

 

She said it in a very plain, matter-of-fact way, like she was telling him the time of day. It was still, without a doubt, the single most arousing thing Steve had ever heard. And there was no hiding that—though Peggy, still looking at his face, didn’t appear to have noticed.

 

“Steve? Can you do that for me?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Yes or no, please.”

 

“Yeah. Yes.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

She bent down, and he melted into her kiss. It was, in every sense of the word, harder than he could have expected: he was either too turned on to pay attention to the movement of his arms, or too distracted keeping his hands still to focus on what Peggy was doing. He tried grasping the rails—which seemed to work all right, except that if he got too excited he was liable to snap the headboard in two. He didn’t think Peggy would take too kindly to that.

 

Peggy deepened the kiss. Over his clothing, she stroked his chest, scraped her nails across his nipples, and feathered light touches down his side to his hip, before laying a soft, hot hand on his bare leg. He felt stunned, short of breath in a way he didn’t think was possible anymore.

 

She continued to kiss him, her tongue stroking against his with the same rhythm she used to caress his inner thigh, her fingertips just edging beneath the hem of his shorts; so, so close, but never quite close enough to where he was hot and hard and aching for her touch. He felt like he was going to go out of his mind with it. Desperate, he reached down and—

 

“Ah,” said Peggy sharply, stopping entirely. “That’s not what we agreed, is it?”

 

“No.”

 

“No,” she echoed.

 

She took his wrist in a firm grip, placed it back in the correct position, and held it there. They were touching in so many places now: her bare leg was pressed to his, and her breasts, weighty and soft, lay against his chest. Her lips were a mere breath away from his own.

 

“What are we going to do about this, Steve?”

 

Caught between curiosity and desire, he asked, “Are you gonna tie me up?”

 

She gave him an appraising look. “You like that, don’t you? Or part of you certainly does,” she added, eyeing the part in question, which was straining visibly against the front of his shorts. “I wasn’t planning on it for tonight, but I’m not opposed to the idea. Do you want me to tie you up?”

 

Steve hadn’t pictured it as being something it was okay for him to want. He felt absurdly shy about answering the question directly. “Maybe you’d better,” he suggested. “Just in case.”

 

Peggy shook her head slowly. “That’s not how it works, Steve. Is it what you want? Yes or no.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She collected something from the nightstand, then lifted her leg over to straddle him—higher up on his body than he would have liked, her bottom resting on his stomach, her thighs bracketing his ribcage. She unfurled a small bundle of red fabric, teasing it apart into two long, diaphanous scarves.

 

She leaned forward to loop the scarves loosely around the rails and over his wrists, the swell of her bosom pressing against his cheek as she did so. The scent of roses was everywhere, and beneath that, distinct from it, the scent of her skin.

 

He turned his head to nuzzle at the lush curve of one breast, mouth wide open against the silk of her nightgown. He didn’t know if this was allowed; he half-expected she would push him away, restrain him further. Instead, she hummed softly and arched her back, pushing her chest closer. In case he missed the cue, she slid her hand under his head and pulled him against her, urging him on.

 

He kissed and nibbled the exposed tops of her breasts, wanting so badly to stroke and squeeze the creamy flesh, to pull off her nightgown, to see and feel and taste her properly—but wanting even more to please Peggy, to follow her instructions to the letter.

 

Even that small reminder that he was completely at her mercy made his breath come short and fast.

 

“Oh, my darling,” she murmured.

 

The words had an intimate, possessive edge to them that he’d never noticed before now, and he felt himself flushing all over, excited and pleased. Her darling. He _was_ hers. He _wanted_ to be hers.

 

She stroked his hair. “You’re being very patient. Thank you.” She pulled back to finish wrapping the soft cloth around his wrists, and tied a knot, then another. “How does that feel? Not too tight?”

 

He gave an experimental tug. He was fairly certain the restraint wouldn’t hold him in any serious way, but as a reminder to keep his hands in place, it worked. “It’s good.”

 

“You’ll tell me if it starts to bother you?”

 

He started to nod, then said, “Yes.”

 

She gave him an approving smile before sitting back to examine her handiwork. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about you like this,” she told him. “You look lovely.” She raked her nails lightly down his chest.

 

He was beginning to see her point about the undershirt.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, she gave his nipple a sharp pinch through the worn white cotton. “I should leave this on you, shouldn’t I? A reminder of the importance of following my instructions.” She sat up, sliding further down his torso as she did so, until her backside was snugged up against his hard length.

 

Steve could only groan in response.

 

“But I want to touch you, and I don’t see why _I_ should be inconvenienced,” she continued, grasping a fistful of his undershirt in each hand.

 

He wasn’t sure how she was going to get it over his arms without untying them—but he instinctively realized that it wasn’t his problem to solve anymore. That realization was like the release of some secret pressure valve inside of Steve, as though the part of his brain that was worrying about everything that might go wrong had suddenly been switched off.

 

Which was when she tore the undershirt open.

 

“That’s better,” she said, leaning down to press a kiss to his collarbone. She licked at his nipple, which made him squirm a little. “You don’t like that,” she observed.

 

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

 

“All right.” She went back to kissing and biting her way down his chest, still watching his face all the while. It was strange, having her so focused on his comfort, his pleasure—strange, but nice, too.

 

He gasped as her hand drifted lower, cupping him through the thin black cotton.

 

“Oh, you _are_ going to be fun,” she murmured.

 

“Will I get to touch you?”

 

“Yes. In due time. But for now I’d like your hands out of the way.” She kissed a trail down his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his shorts. “I don’t enjoy having my hair pulled, or my head squeezed.”

 

It took Steve a second to understand what she was getting at. His mouth went dry. “I… wouldn’t…?”

 

She patted his thigh reassuringly. “It can happen involuntarily, particularly when one is inexperienced. This way, it’s taken care of.”

 

She tugged the elastic of his boxer briefs over his hips, freeing his erection. For a long moment, she just looked him over, while Steve did his best not to writhe in anticipation.

 

“See anything you like?” he prompted.

 

She smacked his leg lightly. “Cheeky.”

 

He thought she might take him in hand first; instead, she braced herself on the bed, lowered down, and licked the underside of his cock, slowly, root to tip.

 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to buck his hips, every muscle in his core taut and straining. He knew if she kept on doing that, and he kept on _watching_ her do that, he was about to embarrass himself in relatively short order.

 

“Steve,” she murmured. “Look at me.”

 

He obeyed. She was poised over him, eyes dark and hot as embers.

 

“Relax,” she ordered. She had hold of his hip, her thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles. “All right?”

 

Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah.”

 

“Good. I want you to watch me, will you do that?”

 

“I’m not gonna make it if I do,” he confessed.

 

She smirked, and—God help him—licked her lips. “That’s the idea, darling.”

 

He held her gaze, and nodded.

 

She tipped her head down again, without breaking eye contact, and took him in her mouth. Not all of him, not even most of him; but she knew what she was doing, how to work him over with lips and tongue and even teeth, when to push and pull and how to tear him apart completely.

 

At first, it was embarrassing to look—but then it became impossible to look away, impossible to do anything other than watch and hold his breath until it burned in his chest and his limbs began to tingle.

 

He felt, all too soon, the heavy knot behind his groin that meant he was close. He tried to warn her, but he was already beyond words, beyond breath.

 

She must have seen it on his face, because she gave an approving hum and redoubled her efforts, as though trying to swallow him whole. He forgot about keeping his hips in check, forgot that he was supposed to be watching—and then he was gone, gone, utterly gone.

 

He opened his eyes to find Peggy sitting back on her heels, looking pleased with herself. “Wasn’t that nice?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a move that on any other woman might have seemed coy.

 

_Nice_ was the least of what it was. Steve nodded, still not trusting himself to speak.

 

Gracefully, Peggy lifted her nightgown off over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

 

Steve had seen plenty of women in the altogether: between life drawing class and the backstage of the USO tour before, and the internet and cable TV after, the feminine mystique had been pretty effectively de-mystified for him. But this wasn’t just any woman—this was _Peggy_. And he wasn’t merely a passive observer of her nakedness; she was watching him right back, taking pleasure in his reaction.

 

And she was spectacular: powerful thighs and calves, strong shoulders, proud and supple breasts and hips. Toned muscle, sheathed in soft flesh.

 

“See anything you like?” she teased, striking a saucy pose.

 

“Sure, but my eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

 

She laughed warmly, and Steve was mesmerized by the effect of it on every part of her.

 

“Can I get a closer look?” he asked.

 

She straddled his leg and braced herself over him, her breasts swaying gently just within his reach. He craned his neck to nuzzle and lick each of them in turn, capture a nipple between his lips. She seemed to like that a lot more than he had; she made an encouraging sound, one hand supporting the back of his head.

 

He noticed she was moving herself on his thigh; subtly at first, then more insistently, rutting. He raised his leg, pressing up in time with her movements, giving her more friction. She ground back against him each time, with sweet, breathy sighs. Her thighs were slick, the soft curls between them damp.

 

“If I had my hands free, I might be able to help you out,” he said, in a voice that seemed to belong to someone far more worldly.

 

“Mmm,” she said, still rolling her hips. “I think you can do that with your hands where they are, if you—ah!—exercise a bit of creativity. Do you want to try?”

 

Steve may not have had practical experience, but he’d done his research. The internet was a vast resource, with information ranging from surprisingly helpful to genuinely horrifying. Most of the sources he’d been able to find seemed to agree on this: a man’s orgasm was a certainty, but a woman’s orgasm was a challenge.

 

Steve liked challenges.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

 

She moved to kneel over him, her calves bracketing his shoulders—and then, all at once, he was there, at her centre. Whatever research he might have done, it hadn’t prepared him for the reality; he was completely overmastered by her weight and warmth.

 

Sensing his hesitation, she slid a hand down and parted herself for him. He tasted her—experimentally at first, then with more assurance, acclimating to his surroundings. He closed his eyes and navigated on instinct, learning which things pleased her and which ones left her cold. Ever the strategist, Steve did what came naturally: he surveyed the terrain, he noted vulnerable points, and then he circled back and attacked.

 

Above him, she groaned, her fingers sliding into his hair. She held him against her, rocking into his open mouth, making small, wordless pleading noises.

 

The idea that he could do this to her, that he could be the cause of those soft, needy sounds, was already getting him hard again. He thought about what it would be like to be inside her—to plunge himself deep into this slick, pulsing warmth—and the thought alone was almost enough to send him over the edge.

 

He remembered how good it had felt when she’d hummed with her lips around him. He tried it, making a low noise in the back of his throat.

 

Peggy cried out, tugging on a fistful of his hair. “Just like that, just—yes— _Steve_ —” Her body drew upwards and her thighs trembled. She was all around him, tight, throbbing. Then he felt it, a hot flood of salt and scent breaking over him.

 

“Stop,” she commanded a moment later, in a voice he’d never heard her use.

 

Steve dropped back, held still. His eyelashes felt damp, and slightly sticky.

 

She rose up on one knee and unseated herself gracefully, sliding down to lie next to him. Next, she produced a clean hand-towel from somewhere—he was too dazed to notice where—and scrubbed his lips, wiped down his cheeks and chin. He closed his eyes, and she passed the soft cotton over those too, rubbing at his eyebrows. “Look at you,” she breathed. “Thoroughly baptized.”

 

She sounded slightly winded; Steve was prouder of that than he probably ought to have been.

 

She lay on his chest, resting her chin on her folded arms, and flashed him a luminous smile. “You’re doing wonderfully so far. How do you feel?”

 

“Good,” said Steve, politely.

 

“Good?” she repeated, amused. “So you’re satisfied? There isn’t anything else you’d like? I’ve tired you out, and you’d like to go home?”

 

The truth was, he was rock-hard and desperate, just this side of painful. But he didn’t know if that was the kind of thing he could come right out and _say_ , especially when she looked so relaxed and comfortable.

 

“Come on,” she prompted. “Stop biting your lip and tell me.”

 

He swallowed hard, and said, “I want you.”

 

“Hmm.” Her smile was encouraging. “Be more specific. How do you want me?”

 

“I want to be inside you.” Once the dam was broken, words began to flood out of him as fast as he could form the thoughts in his head. “I want you on top of me, riding hell for leather. And I want you to untie my hands, so I can touch you. Everywhere.”

 

Her gaze darkened. “Yes,” she said, huskily. “Very good. I like it when you’re direct.”

 

She loosened his bindings and let him slip his hands free. True to his word, as soon as he was able, he sat up and kissed her, running his hands over her body as he did so. He stroked the soft skin of her belly, then skimmed upwards to fill his hands with her breasts, the peaks of her nipples rubbing against his palms. She arched into his touch, her head tipping back; he kissed his way down her throat, tasted the dew of perspiration on her collarbone.

 

Her hand worked its way between their bodies; she gave him a firm stroke, then another, drawing a low groan out of him. He dropped his head against her shoulder, helpless and wanting.

 

With her free hand, without stopping what she was doing, she managed to get into the top drawer of the nightstand, retrieving a foil packet.

 

“We don’t actually need this,” she began, in a conversational tone, as though they were on one of their art museum dates, and she was telling him what she thought about the latest installation. “I’m past the age of little surprises, and I know you don’t have anything I can catch. But it should make you less sensitive. I want you to last a good long while this time. All right?”

 

That hadn’t really occurred to Steve—but as plans went, it seemed pretty sound. “Okay.”

 

She guided him to lie back, propped up on his elbows. With deft hands, she rolled the condom on slowly, giving him time to adjust to the strangeness of it.

 

After, she kissed him very sweetly and smoothed the hair back from his forehead, looking at him with such tenderness that Steve couldn’t help but feel… loved.

 

Whether she was ready to admit to it or not, he was more to her than another notch on her bedpost.

 

“Ready, my darling?”

 

He couldn’t help the goofy grin that crept onto his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

Instinctively, he held her by the waist, watching as she lowered herself down. His eyes slid shut as she enveloped him, slick and tight and perfect. As soon as he felt like he had it under control, he opened his eyes to look, knowing it was what she wanted.

 

Seeing their bodies joined made it clear how perfectly they complemented each other: her curves transposed against his angles, soft and lush where he was hard and lean.

 

Her eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on his face. She had a look of quiet astonishment, as though she’d awakened from a dream to find it was real, after all.

 

“How’s that?” she asked, her voice slightly unsteady.

 

All Steve could manage was, “Good.” He kept one hand on her hip, the other sliding up to rest over her heart.

 

Then she rolled her body languorously, shoulders to thighs, and he had to remind himself to keep breathing as she started to move in earnest, drawing pleasure out of him with each rise and fall.

 

Taking his hand, she pressed a kiss into the palm before guiding it down between her legs. The angle was a little different, but the topography was roughly the same, and Steve soon figured out how to curl his fingers, where to press and how hard.

 

She leaned forward to kiss him, changing the angle of their bodies in a way that let him in even deeper. He snapped up hard, and they groaned against each other’s mouths. He did it again, rising to meet her, his hips moving in counterpoint to hers. It took them a few tries to get the rhythm down—but once they did, it became as automatic and necessary as kissing her, as touching her; if Steve were to stop doing it, he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would die.

 

“Peggy,” he gasped.

 

“Not yet!”

 

“I wasn’t, I—tell me I—”

 

She kissed him fiercely. “Say what you mean,” she growled.

 

He was too far gone to be ashamed of himself for wanting it. “Say I’m yours. Please.”

 

“Mine,” she said breathlessly. “Mine, all mine, my—my Steve.”

 

Then he felt her flutter around him as she cried out and came.

 

He felt his own release rushing to the surface—he closed his eyes and tried to think about anything, anything at all that wasn’t the hot pull of her body around his. Baseball statistics, his gym routine, the radio program he’d been listening to in the car on the way over.

 

After a few moments, her pace slowed, and he started to feel like he might be able to get on top of it.

 

“Steve?”

 

She looked gorgeous—hair mussed, eyes glassy, splashes of pink spreading down her throat and across her chest like fresh watercolour. She seemed, not merely sated, but actually happy.

 

“All right?” she inquired, passing a hand over his flushed cheek.

 

He nodded.

 

“I thought you were close. You’re not ready?”

 

“You wanted me to last longer,” he pointed out, through gritted teeth. “I’m sure tryin’.”

 

She gave a full-throated laugh, clenching tighter around him. “Oh, Steve. Thank you. I think you’ve waited long enough, though, don’t you?” She lay flush against him, whispering in his ear, “I want you to come for me. Will you do that?”

 

He gave a grunt that he hoped would pass for affirmation.

 

She held him close with strong hands, fingernails digging into his shoulders. “My sweet darling.” She nipped at his neck, the underside of his jaw. “You've been so good. I need you to come inside me now, Steve. Please.”

 

The force of his orgasm surprised him—starting at his core and spreading outwards, sparking every nerve along the way, fireworks bursting under his skin. It broke over him in long waves, sloshing from one end of him to the other and then back again, Peggy riding him through it.

 

After things had settled somewhat, she suggested that he go and dispose of the condom. It was better to do it quickly, she explained, particularly if one was using the condom for contraceptive reasons. Steve didn’t care for the implication that she was training him up for some future partner, but he went and did as he was told.

 

His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked just as it always had—though his face was considerably more self-satisfied than usual, and his shoulders and back had a few new scratches.

 

When he emerged, Peggy was sitting up, bare to the waist. She smiled up at him, and let him fold her into his arms as he lay back down. He cradled her against his chest, caressing her back. Neither of them spoke. The candles gradually flickered out, the room cooled, and the world seemed to narrow to the bed, to Peggy’s silken skin under his hands, to her soft breathing.

 

For Steve, it was just as good, and maybe better, than everything that had come before.


	5. something bigger than us and beyond bliss

When Steve opened his eyes again, it was nearly midnight, according to the clock on the nightstand. He wasn’t sure whether he’d actually slept, or just drifted for a while. He felt lightheaded, almost drunk—which reminded him of something they’d both forgotten.

 

He dropped a kiss on Peggy’s shoulder. “We never opened the wine.”

 

“It’s late,” she murmured.

 

Steve couldn’t tell if she meant that it was late for a drink, or that it was late, full stop. When she didn’t say anything else, he prompted her with, “I should go, yeah?”

 

Peggy hummed an acknowledgement, then shifted, rolling away from him to flick on the lamp.

 

Steve had hoped she’d want him to stay. It didn’t seem that way, and he wasn’t about to beg.

 

He stood and gathered up his clothes from the vanity table, only to realize he had no idea where his boxer briefs had ended up. He lifted a corner of the comforter, trying to peek underneath without disturbing Peggy too much.

 

“Early train tomorrow?” she inquired, without moving or opening her eyes.

 

“Not too bad.” He walked around to her side of the bed and back, then crouched down to check the floor. Nothing.

 

He’d already resigned himself to a scratchy drive back to the hotel and was pulling on his jeans when Peggy observed, “They’re by my foot.”

 

“Thanks.” He slid his hand under the covers until he found her knee, then traced slowly down to her ankle, fingertips gliding over skin like silk.

 

“The other foot.” She’d turned over and was watching him, her faint, inscrutable smile firmly in place. Sleep had rendered her slightly less perfect, and infinitely more gorgeous: her hair was unruly, her eye makeup smudged, and her mouth chapped. It spoke to her comfort with him, her willingness to be vulnerable.

 

He ran his finger lightly over the sole of her foot. Her leg spasmed, and she made a very undignified noise. She dove under the covers, resurfacing a moment later to fling the shorts into his face. He caught them, tossing them aside.

 

“Good to know I’m not the only one who’s ticklish,” he told her, reaching beneath the covers again. “The question is, though… where?” He brushed his fingertips over her abdomen, grazed her hip with his knuckles—those were his sensitive spots, but none of it made Peggy jump.

 

She warned, “You’ll get an elbow to the face if you guess correctly.”

 

Impulsively, he kissed her hard, pressing her down into the bed.

 

She made an approving noise. “Someone’s getting confident.”

 

“I’m a fast learner.”

 

“I can see that.” Her hand delved into the open front of his jeans. “Aren’t you uncomfortable like this, my darling?”

 

The endearment, and the memories it recalled, made him shiver, his eyes falling closed.

 

“The zipper doesn’t chafe you in any tender spots?” she continued, palming his growing hardness. She threw her free arm around his neck and pulled him down, her breasts flattening against his bare chest as she kissed him hungrily. “Take them off,” she breathed.

 

Steve’s head was reeling. His body was definitely up for what she was offering—but what his heart craved was the feeling of pure joy that had come from holding her in the darkness.

 

She’d told him to be direct about what he wanted.

 

He took a deep breath. “Maybe… we could just go back to sleep, for now?”

 

Peggy let go of him, pulling her hand out of his pants. “I won’t keep you, if you’re tired.”

 

Steve felt as though he’d been slapped across the face. The message was clear: he could stay for the sex, but she didn’t want him there otherwise.

 

He recalled what she’d said before, about not using him the way she did her ‘gentleman friends.’ At the time, he hadn’t been able to fathom how Peggy’s conquests could possibly feel that way—not when she was so straightforward about her expectations.

 

Just now, though, Steve _did_ feel used. He’d been so certain that she cared for him, that this was more than just her showing him the ropes—but thinking back, he couldn’t recall her ever actually saying that. He was embarrassed to have been so needy, so eager to believe that she might actually be falling in love with him again.

 

He didn’t know what would come out of his mouth if he started talking. To avoid further humiliation, he took his clothes into the bathroom to finish dressing.

 

When he came back out, Peggy had put on her nightgown, as well as a silky blue wrap. She’d combed her hair and cleaned her face, erasing the last lingering traces of the evening.

 

“I’ll be back in the city on the 21st,” she told him, as she walked him to the front door. “I’ll call you.”

 

“Sure,” said Steve, unenthusiastically.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing, I—I had a great time. Thank you.”

 

She sighed. “It was too much, wasn’t it?”

 

Steve didn’t know how to take that, so he left it alone.

 

“I should have known better,” she continued, taking his hand in both of hers. “Your first time. It was thoughtless of me.”

 

Steve blushed angrily. “It wasn’t too—I _asked_ you to tie me up, I wanted it. I liked it. I’m a grown man, Peggy. You didn’t take advantage of me.”

 

“Then what’s the problem?”

 

“I think you and I,” he said carefully, “are looking for different things.”

 

She let go of his hand. Her face changed, hardened. “I see. I suppose we’re better off finding that out now, before anyone gets hurt.”

 

“Little late for that,” he retorted, before he could stop himself.

 

She nodded once, briskly, and opened the door.

 

*

 

Steve woke up the next morning in an uncharacteristically bad mood. He stewed over his morning coffee, tore up the track at a nearby gym, and bellyached about having to be escorted around the SHIELD campus by Natasha because his official ID wasn’t ready yet. What was the good of being Captain Fucking America, he wanted to know, if it couldn’t even get him past the reception station?

 

“You want me to walk you over to Medical?” Natasha inquired. She held the door open and they stepped into the thick heat of the afternoon, Steve still picking at the neon pink VISITOR sticker affixed to his shirt.

 

“What the hell for?” he groused.

 

“So you can get that bug removed from your ass?”

 

He glared at her.

 

“I hear it’s a fairly simple operation,” she added, her expression bland.

 

“Thanks for the tour. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

 

“Great idea. I’ll come with you.”

 

“I was thinking alone.”

 

“That’s no fun. Come on, I know where we can get a Korean barbecue taco.”

 

Steve blinked. “That’s… not a real thing.”

 

“Ten bucks says you’re wrong.”

 

He finally succeeded in peeling off the sticker, only to have it cling stubbornly to his fingers. “Fury told you about that, huh?”

 

“He mentioned you like sucker bets.” She pulled the sticker off his hand and flicked it neatly into the trash.

 

He’d already opened his mouth to decline when he heard himself say, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

*

 

It turned out that ten bucks bought three tacos and a soda from the brightly-painted truck; Steve paid for his own, and Natasha’s as well. The tacos were smaller than Steve was expecting, but hot and flavourful, unlike anything he’d tried on his culinary adventures with Peggy.

 

As embarrassing as it was to admit, he did feel a little better once he’d had a walk and something to eat—so much so that he wound up telling Natasha what had happened the night before. Not the bedroom details, but a general outline of the events leading up to the evening, and the way the conversation had unfolded afterwards.

 

Natasha listened and asked clarifying questions—but, Steve noticed, carefully avoided contributing anything that might be construed as advice.

 

Finally, Steve said, “I wouldn’t mind a woman’s point of view on this.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s what you want.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“Wow.”

 

Natasha shrugged. “You asked.”

 

“Okay. Why am I an idiot?”

 

“Think about it from her perspective. She put herself out there, and you shut her down.”

 

“That’s not what happened. Kind of the opposite, actually.”

 

“You said she picks up guys in New York because she doesn’t want to take them home. You said they all think she’s an heiress, or something. But she took _you_ home. She let _you_ into her life. And then you throw a tantrum because she won’t let you sleep over? Did you even _ask_ her?”

 

“I didn’t have to ask, she—”

 

Natasha threw up her hands. “That’s the problem right there. She may be older than you. She’s definitely smarter than you. But she’s not a mind-reader.”

 

“Neither am I!”

 

“Steve. Think about how many outs she’s given you. That crack about finding a young lady? The key word there? Is _young_.”

 

That brought him up short. “You think this is about age?”

 

“I think she doesn’t look twenty-five anymore, and you do.”

 

“So what? I don’t care about that.”

 

“But _she_ does.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“Were the lights low in the bedroom? Did she change into something, a robe or a nightgown? Did she take a while to get undressed in front of you, maybe wait until you were warmed up first?”

 

Steve shifted uncomfortably on the park bench. “Come on. That’s not… she’s too confident for that. She’s a beautiful woman. She’s always got guys chasing after her. And she knows I’m crazy about her.”

 

“All she knows right now is that after you saw her naked, you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

 

“Look, you don’t know her like I do. That may be part of it, but I don’t think that’s all it is.”

 

“So? What’s your plan, star-spangled man?”

 

He sighed heavily. “Do what I should have done in the first place, I guess. Talk to her about it.”

 

Natasha gave his shoulder an encouraging pat. “Good start.”

 

*

 

Peggy didn’t call on the 21st, but Steve hadn’t really expected her to. He tried her cell phone, but the calls went straight to voice mail.

 

Finally, he got on his bike and drove to her hotel. The woman at the desk had seen him there with Peggy before, and gave Steve the room number when he inquired.

 

No answer when he knocked, but he could hear movement in the room. He knew it was his imagination running away with him, but he couldn’t help picturing her in there, naked and breathless and pressed up against some guy, some _Trevor_ , saying the same things to him that she had to Steve.

 

His second knock left knuckle-shaped dents in the heavy wooden door.

 

“Leave it outside,” Peggy called.

 

“It’s Steve.”

 

The door cracked open a sliver. She had her hair wrapped in a towel, no makeup. “I thought you were room service.”

 

“I want to talk to you. Please.”

 

“I don’t know that there’s anything left to say. You were quite clear the last time.”

 

Steve knew he had enough leverage to force the door open. He uncurled his fingers from the jamb, hating the fact that the thought had even occurred to him. “Please,” he repeated.

 

After a moment of deliberation, she stood aside and let him in.

 

There was no man in the room, nor any evidence of one having been there. Peggy was barefoot and wearing a giant hotel robe, which had the combined effect of making her seem very small. Her hair was damp, plastered to her cheek.

 

“Peggy…”

 

She watched him expectantly. She clearly wasn’t about to make this easy.

 

Every word of the speech Steve had been rehearsing on the drive over evaporated the moment he opened his mouth.

 

“I hate this,” he said instead. “I miss you.”

 

“Because you have no one to take you to dinner on a Friday night?” Her voice had a brittle quality to it. “Or because you’d rather go to bed with an old woman than none at all?”

 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

 

Peggy folded her arms.

 

“It is. You don’t really believe that I would walk out on you because you were too old for me.”

 

“And what suddenly makes you the expert on what I believe?”

 

“You know me too well to think that. And I know you.”

 

“You used to know me.”

 

“No, I know you _now_. We only slept together one time, but we’ve been seeing each other for months. You’ve kept me at arm’s length, you’ve done everything possible to get rid of me, without actually telling me you want me to go. And I don’t think it all has to do with age. I think that’s a convenient excuse. I think it’s because you’re scared.”

 

“Scared?” she scoffed, not very convincingly.

 

“Yeah.” He took a step closer. “I’m scared too, Peggy. Scared that we might have built each other up too much in our minds; scared that we’ll try this and it won’t work out, and then I’ll lose you again; believe me, I’ve thought of every possible way this could go wrong. But I—we—can’t let the things we’re scared of stop us from being together. It’s what we both want.”

 

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

 

“You said you liked it when I was direct.”

 

A wash of pink spread across her cheeks and nose. “It’s a nice look on you,” she conceded.

 

“I wanted to stay, that night. I was afraid that if I asked, you’d say no.”

 

“I wouldn’t have. But you seemed to want to leave. I wasn’t about to beg.”

 

Steve smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Natasha was right. I’m an idiot.”

 

“You told Natasha?” inquired Peggy, dangerously calm.

 

“Not everything. I just wanted to understand.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure she was _very_ supportive.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that. Besides, I’m too old for her.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“I’m not in love with Natasha,” he said, pointedly.

 

Peggy nodded, looking startled. Truth be told, Steve felt a little startled himself.

 

“So,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

 

“You’re the one storming in here, taking the initiative. What are your terms?”

 

“You make it sound like we’re negotiating a surrender.”

 

“Aren’t we?”

 

“Well… from now on, I won’t assume I’m being kicked out unless you say so.”

 

“All right. And, on that note, I’m kicking you out. I have a prior engagement, and I have to finish getting ready.” She kissed his cheek, then added, “You can put that lower lip away. I’m having drinks with Nick.”

 

Steve immediately pictured the tattooed twenty-something with an eyebrow ring they’d run into at a gallery opening a month earlier. Fortunately, he clued in before he embarrassed himself further. “Fury?”

 

“The same.”

 

“Just drinks?”

 

“I do occasionally manage to enjoy a man’s company without straddling him,” she said waspishly.

 

“No, I didn’t mean—I just meant, if it’s only going to be a couple of hours, I could stick around here.” He nodded meaningfully in the direction of the room’s king size bed.

 

She looked him over, obviously considering it. “It’s a lovely thought. But when Nick and I get talking shop, it’s liable to be a late night.”

 

“Okay.”

  
“But let’s absolutely file that away for another time. I think it would be delightful to have you waiting in my bed at home. Naked, perhaps. But with some light restraint, to keep you from misbehaving.”

 

She petted his chest, and Steve flushed all over.

 

“You’d like that, my darling?”

 

He nodded eagerly.

 

“Wonderful.”

 

“But I also—I want…”

 

“Go on.”

 

“I want to make you dinner at my place, sometimes, instead of always going out. And I want to plan dates to take you on.” Once he started talking, he found that he couldn’t stop. “And when we run into people you know, I don’t want to be introduced as your ‘friend’ and have them look at me like I’m just some guy you’re nailing this week. The sex is great, and I want to keep doing that, but that’s not the only thing for me, or even the main thing.”

 

“What you’re describing is a relationship, Steve.”

 

“Yeah. I guess it is. What do you think?”

 

“I think… you need to be sure that’s what you want.”

 

“It  _is_  what I want. I’m asking if it’s what  _you_  want.”

 

“It’s been a very long time for me,” she told him. “I’m not sure I’m wired for that sort of intimacy anymore.”

 

She was clearly shaken, and he could see that if he pushed too hard, the walls were going to come back up.

 

“Just think about it,” he said gently. “And let me know what you decide.”

 

“And if I decide that it’s no, Steve? What then?”

 

“Then… we figure out a way to be in each other’s lives that works for both of us.”

 

She nodded. “All right.”

 

He took a chance and folded her into his arms. She returned the hug, her fingers lacing together at the small of his back, her cheek against his chest.

 

“I’ve missed you as well, you know.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes. God knows why. You’re always starting arguments, you have terrible taste in music, you insist on ordering a cheeseburger off the menu of any restaurant where you can find one, and you think it’s completely reasonable to buy a bottle of wine for under ten dollars. And your sideburns are _ridiculous_.”

 

Steve allowed himself a moment to let all of that sink in.

 

“How’d you like the wine from the other night?” he asked.

 

“I never opened it.”

 

“That’s too bad. I bet it’s good. It cost more than ten dollars.”

 

She squeezed his waist tightly. “Hmm, yes.”

 

“I can trim my sideburns.”

 

“Don’t,” she murmured into his shirt. “I don’t know why I said that.”

 

“It’s no big deal,” he assured her. “I’ve got an electric trimmer. Takes five seconds.”

 

She tilted her head back to look at him. “I don’t want you to change a thing, Steve. All right? Not one thing.”

 

Steve didn’t quite know what to say to that; he took another chance, and kissed her instead. It was the right call: she responded full-force, pressing into him, hands clenched tight on the lapels of his jacket.

 

A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. Peggy took a step back, straightening her robe.

 

“It’s my room service. Make yourself useful and deal with it, won’t you? I need to dry my hair before it sticks like this.”

 

Steve answered the door and accepted the tray, placing it carefully on the only table in the suite. He wasn’t sure if he ought to tip the guy, but did anyhow, just to be on the safe side. As the door closed, he could hear the hair dryer running.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed and let out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. He could feel his limbs start to loosen, his body relaxing for the first time since he’d barged into the suite. His thoughts were a jumble, but the main thing he felt was a vast relief: Peggy didn’t want to let him go, any more than he wanted to be let go.

 

It wasn’t everything he could have hoped for, but it was a start.

 

Before long, she returned, her hair dry and swept over to one side. She seemed more confident and collected than she had been a few minutes ago—and it might have been his imagination, but he thought her robe was open a little more at the top than before.

 

She plainly wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

 

“Do you mind if I stay while you have your dinner?” he asked.

 

“You want to watch me eat?”

 

“I can’t decide if that makes me sound creepy or just boring. No. I haven’t seen you in weeks. I want to sit and keep you company while you eat. And then I’ll go, I promise.”

 

She looked him up and down appraisingly. “No, I think you’ll stay a little longer after that,” she declared, and held out the other chair at the table for him. “You can be dessert.”

 

Steve wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, though he could hazard a pretty decent guess.

 

He spent the next quarter of an hour trying to figure out whether Peggy had always been such a slow eater, or whether she was deliberately drawing it out. She made an agonizing amount of small talk as she sliced everything into tiny, precise bites, punctuating each mouthful with sips of wine.

 

“You look like you’re starving,” she observed, spearing a piece of asparagus with her fork. She popped it into her mouth, with a little noise of approval that made Steve’s skin prickle all over. “Shall I call down and order you something? Cheeseburger, perhaps?”

 

He ignored the dig. “It’s not that kind of hungry.”

 

Her gaze raked over him. He didn’t shy away from it, didn’t try to hide the effect she was having. He suspected that knowing how badly he wanted her, and making him wait, was part of the appeal.

 

He looked her over in return: the splashes of colour high on her cheeks; the glossy waterfall of her hair; the teasing way her breasts almost spilled out of the loose hotel robe. He felt flushed and lightheaded, his pulse pounding in his throat.

 

“You could take your pants off,” she suggested, with an angelic smile. “Perhaps you’ll inspire me.”

 

“Did you hate Christmas as a kid?”

 

She glanced up from her dinner, puzzled by the apparent non sequitur.

 

“It’s just that you never want to unwrap your gifts,” he clarified.

 

“Very clever. Did you think that up in advance?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

She skewered him with a look. “And is that what you’d like? To be unwrapped?”

 

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

 

Deliberately, she put down her knife and fork. She drained her wine glass in two long swallows, and patted her lips with the cloth napkin before dropping it onto the table and pushing back her chair.

 

“Right. On the bed, please.”

 

Steve didn’t wait to be asked twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Steve is wrong. The Korean BBQ Taco is absolutely a thing. I found it on a list of [DC’s top ten food trucks](http://roaminghunger.com/food-trucks/dc/washington-dc/1/). There’s also one called Captain Cookie and the Milk Man!


End file.
